Imprint of a Departed Soul
by Snape's Nightie
Summary: Because death is only the beginning... Snape, ghosts and yet more trouble at Hogwarts.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Characters and situations not mine, they're JK's. All used without permission for non-financially stimulating reasons. Promise.

…….

This bunny has been following me around for over a year now. I figured it was easiest to just give in.

Warning: This fic features CHARACTER DEATH, but nothing tragic or moving! Yes – I've done something I swore I never would…

…….

It was the Christmas holidays and Hogwarts was practically deserted. Only three pupils had stayed behind this year, all in first or second year, so they tended to stay away from the still-scary adults and stick together for snowball fights or card games, only appearing in the great Hall for meals.

This suited Snape perfectly. The Headmaster and the few staff who were around understood his need for solitude in the absence of the majority of the school's repulsive adolescents, so for the most part, he was left alone to indulge his two great passions – brewing and brooding.

It had been a particularly violent Autumn term, with Quidditch injuries at an all time high, so Madam Pomfrey's stocks of healing potions had received a thorough bashing since September. Snape was rather enjoying the relaxing task of replenishing the simple salves and uncomplicated unctions in the huge quantities which would no doubt be required if the mid-air fouls continued at a similar rate in the new year. He found it more soothing to stir the enormous number 19 pewter cauldron – big enough to fit three first-years in, if chopped finely - than attending to the intricacies of the small desk-top ones.

The vat of Concussion Cure he was stirring had reached the perfect consistency, sending up green bubbles every few seconds with a melodious 'bloop' as he wound the mixture ninety-nine times counter-clockwise with a massive round-ended paddle. Snape's thoughts were miles away – formulating new witty insults to dole out on next term's inevitable curfew-breakers when he swooped down on them during his corridor patrols. Honestly, did they really think he did not know every secret hiding place in the entire school? That he had not used them for his own illicit purposes as a student? Or as a teacher, for that matter? The dunderheads always believed they were the first students able to use their pedestrian brains.

It must be so tedious, he mused, being a ghost. Doomed to prowl the same corridors for all eternity, watching different sets of brats perpetrate the same old crimes over and over again. Sir Nicholas, having more of an excuse for not using his head than most Gryffindors, seemed to actually enjoy recounting the old scandals, which did not have the effect that Snape would have expected. Rather than humbly accepting that they would never be creative enough to come up with a single original wheeze, they got inspired to rehash the tired old pranks through some warped sense of Gryffindor _tradition_.

Snape despaired. At least the Baron had the decency to keep his own counsel on such matters.

He reached his ninety-ninth rotation and reached for the phial of clarifying solution. Just a few drops would be necessary, even for such a large cauldronful. Still lost in his concoction of pithy put-downs, he pulled out the cork and carefully poured out the right amount to turn the mixture to the perfect shade of beige.

Only it did not turn beige, it turned a stomach-churningly vivid hue of purple.

Alarmed, the professor looked at the glass bottle in his hand, the label clearly declaring it to be 'Clarifying Solution' in his own writing, with the date he brewed it neatly printed underneath. Clarifying Solution was classified as a harmless substance, so it was odd to find it misbehaving in this way. Placing the phial carefully under his large nose, he sniffed.

The laboratory flickered before his eyes and turned purple.

Then red.

Then paisley.

Then deep, dark, impenetrable, unfathomable, irreversible **black.**

…….

Professor McGonagall was feeling sick.

It did not happen often, as she never spent a great deal of time as a cat, but once in a while she would become painfully aware of a bloated, woolly sensation in her abdomen. It was usually accompanied by dry-retching. Though she would never admit to anyone else, she knew exactly what the problem was.

Hairballs.

Fortunately, she had a sensible arrangement with Professor Snape, which dealt with her problem in a mutually-beneficial way. He would provide her with a potion which dissolved them easily and without fuss, if she provided him with such cat products as he might require in his potions, fur, whiskers etc. He was under no illusions as to his fate if she ever found out he had failed to keep her secret.

She made her way down to the dungeons slowly, willing her stomach to stop griping as she walked. The vague smell of burning did nothing to alleviate her suffering either. Oddly, it seemed to be getting stronger as she drew closer to the potions lab, smelling as though someone had left their old socks too close to the fire.

Pushing open the door, a plume of purple smoke poured out and spread across the ceiling of the corridor, leaving Minerva really alarmed. What on earth could have happened? Her colleague was usually so adept at containing the infrequent accidents which he had outside of term time. Something serious must be going on.

"Severus?" she called, casting a bubble-head charm on herself as a precaution. "Severus, are you there?"

An enormous cauldron sat in the corner of the room, spewing out blue bubbles as well as the purple gas as it furiously boiled over. Her eyes followed the trails of ruined potion running down the outside of the pot and onto the floor, where a pool of the garish liquid was forming on the flagstones, then to a pair of black boots sticking out from underneath a table.

"Severus!" she exclaimed, darting forward to help him and firing her emergency patronus to summon Dumbledore.

The potions master was lying on his back, every muscle relaxed and a peaceful expression softening his harsh features. Gone was the scowl, the hunched shoulders, clenched fists and overall aura of barely-contained menace; instead his face was free of its furrows and suspicious expressions. Looking at him now, Minerva reflected sadly, one could easily mistake him for a mild-mannered man in his thirties, instead of the nocturnal stalking terror of the school. She heaved a tremulous sigh.

Albus dashed inside, also bubble-headed, and took in the situation at a glance.

"Is he hurt?" he asked, quickly extinguishing the flame beneath the angry cauldron.

"No Albus, he's not hurt," she said quietly. He was about to ask another question when she interrupted with a less controlled statement, tears welling in her eyes. "He's dead."

…….

AN: Another short, non-epic fic begins! This is a sort-of celebration of my first anniversary of writing fanfiction (yes, Wartime Distraction is a year old and no nearer completion, sigh). Thanks for reading! x


	2. Chapter 2

The pennants adorning Hogwarts' turrets fluttered at half-mast, while the decoration in the Great Hall was a respectful shade of black. The staff wore subdued expressions and the Headmaster looked most unusual in his plain grey robe and hat. Every single member of Slytherin house sported a black armband, while Draco Malfoy rained twenty types of hex on any pupil who had the effrontery to laugh or misbehave under the sad circumstances.

It did not take long for the truth to emerge. As Dumbledore explained the tragic accident to the stunned pupils when they returned from the Christmas holidays, he reached the part about a phial labelled Clarifying Solution mysteriously turning out to contain deadly Manticore Repellent, when two Gryffindor third years burst into hysterical sobs.

In the privacy of the Headmaster's study, they clung miserably to each other and begged not to be sent to Azkaban.

"Miss Harbinger, Mr Shipman, would you please explain precisely what happened," McGonagall's lips were white with horror at the thought that her students were in some way responsible for her young colleague's death. Albus tried to control the wobbly feeling in his stomach caused by the realisation that Severus may have been killed as a result of yet another Gryffindor prank.

"We didn't mean it!" they howled in unison. After some calming draught and a lemon drop each, the girl managed to confess that in order to ruin the potion of a particularly geeky Slytherin classmate, they had swapped around the labels on some of the phials in the lab on the last day of term.

"It was all our fault, wasn't it?" the boy sniffed. "It was the last class before we broke up for the holidays. We forgot all about it."

Minerva saw to it that they remembered the dressing-down for the rest of their lives.

…….

On the second day of term, the students were still rather quiet at breakfast. Even though Snape had been the most unpopular teacher in the history of Hogwarts, an achievement of which he had been tremendously proud, the children still found it unnerving to lose him.

"Ridiculous, really," Hermione commented quietly over her porridge. "He survives capture and torture at the hands of Voldemort and a vengeful band of homicidal Death Eaters, only to fall victim to a stupid accident."

At the Ravenclaw table, two first-years started giggling over a magazine. A blond head snapped up at the end of Slytherin and glared. A few seconds later, Crabbe and Goyle lumbered over for a 'quiet word' and silence descended again.

"I had hoped that all the pointless death would stop, since the end of the war," murmured Harry, absently polishing his Head Boy badge until he could see both his scars reflected in it.

Just then, the peace was shattered so violently, everyone in the hall jumped out of their seat. The Order of the Phoenix veterans and ex-DA members had drawn their wands before they realised it was only Peeves, but kept them raised when they realised he was behaving even more oddly than usual.

The poltergeist burst through the huge oak doors, screaming in terror. He zoomed twice around the ceiling, still screeching, with his ghostly hands drawn up to his face, before buzzing the staff table and vanishing through the wall behind their heads with an other-worldly 'pop'.

Everyone remained frozen for a moment until their ears stopped ringing.

"Elf?" asked Dumbledore authoritatively. The whole school turned to watch as the tiny figure of Dobby materialised, wearing a navy blue woolly had with a dark red pom-pom and at least five different socks in a variety of respectfully muted shades. By his standards, at least.

"Yes, Master Headmaster, sir? How can Dobby be helping today?" he asked.

"Dobby, is anything wrong inside the castle?" asked Albus carefully, sharp blue eyes examining every fraction of the room.

"Wrong, Master Headmaster, sir? No, sir. Dobby is not thinking so, unless you is talking about the Master Groundskeeper's big Fang doggie who has his head stuck in the biscuit barrel again, sir?"

"No, Dobby, aside from that?" Dumbledore's upper lip twitched.

"No, Master Headmaster, sir. All is being very hunky chunky dory, sir!" he stated proudly.

"How odd," said Minerva. "I've never seen Peeves so upset before."

Back at the Gryffindor table, Hermione's eyes were wide was she meticulously scanned the hall.

"What is it?" asked Ron, wishing she would sit back down so they could do justice to the mountain of crispy bacon which had just appeared next to his plate. Harry studied her fearful expression.

"What's wrong?" he asked cautiously, experience having taught him to respect the fact that her brain was habitually five minutes ahead of his own. And a good half hour ahead of Ron's.

"I was just wondering what terrifies a ghost," she whispered.

"Dan Aykroyd?" suggested Dean Thomas, who was multi-tasking by eating toast with one hand and clutching his wand in the other.

"Who?" went Ron.

"Shh," snapped Hermione.

The boys pondered her question. Peeves the Poltergeist, supernatural terror of the school, tormentor of Umbridge and merciless harasser of staff and students alike, was beside his unpleasant self with fear.

"Whatever it is," Harry began uneasily, "It must be fiendish!"

"Demonic," added Ron, his ears turning pink with dread.

"Truly heinous," Dean finally put down his toast.

"What is it about this castle and mortal peril?" sighed Ginny, with weariness beyond her years

.…….

AN: Yes, I know, pointless silliness! This harsh world needs more of it x


	3. Chapter 3

Another few months to update! Once again, I apologise for the pathetic attention span.

Warning: Toilet humour. Literally.

…….

Dumbledore was sitting in his favourite armchair, warming his toes in front of the fire as he tried to decide how best to commemorate the memory of his departed colleague.

A portrait would be the traditional method, though Snape's natural aversion to being photographed meant that an artist would have difficulty finding a likeness to copy. When Albus had first noticed that any pictures of the staff at school functions or Quidditch matches turned out not to show the young man, even if he had been right there at the time, he had wondered if the children's theories on vampirism may have been correct. He kept a close watch on Severus from then on, but the only other symptoms of that dreadful curse had been a touch of the Undead about his sallow complexion and the tendency to swoop about at the dead of night, frightening people. He was fairly certain that no vampire would have such an appetite for garlic, however. Or apple and blackberry crumble, for that matter. No, he had been forced to conclude that a natural disinclination for having his image recorded had prompted Snape to avoid the lens through a little judicious hiding. Behind pillars or other people, under tables, inside his own hair – or by any other means available. Not for nothing was the ex-spy recognised as the sneakiest Slytherin to ever slide through Hogwarts.

Another option would be a commemorative prize for Potions students. The trouble with that idea was that Snape's opinion of his pupils had never been very high. As far as Albus could remember, the young brewers had been divided into two categories: hopeless dunderheads or irritating know-it-alls, with slight concession to the perceived superiority of everyone in his own house. Not one of the end of year reports which the headmaster signed off had ever contained a genuine compliment from Snape – upon closer inspection even Draco Malfoy's turned out to be a critique of his brown-nosing skills.

That left Quidditch. The house Quidditch cup could be renamed in his honour, but Albus did not want to be the one to inform Minerva. Over the years their rivalry and heavy gambling on the outcome of matches had caused quite a stir in the staffroom and while Slytherin openly cheated on the pitch, the Head of Gryffindor had once been spotted trying to knobble the a rival chaser at breakfast before the match. Perhaps not the best idea. He would have to try much harder to come up with the perfect idea.

Before he got any further, he was interrupted by and odd noise coming from his fireplace. First there was a sneeze. Then someone said:

"Is this thing on?"

There was a whoosh.

"Hello?"

Dumbledore pulled out his wand, just in case and rose from his seat.

"Good morning," he called.

"Hello!" shouted a voice with a heavy Northern accent. "Is that Warthogs?"

"Er, this is Hogwarts," suggested the headmaster helpfully.

"Oh, aye, that's right." The man using the floo connection seemed to be under the impression that you needed to shout very loudly to make yourself understood.

"This is Professor Albus Dumbledore. To whom do I have the honour of speaking?" He didn't recognise the voice. It was obviously someone who was not too familiar with the magical world.

"Dumbledore? By 'eck, you must be getting' on a bit now! You were proper old when my first wife were a lass!" there was a wheezing chuckle. "This is Snape, Toby Snape, Sev's dad."

Albus' jaw fell open.

"Now, can I actually come through the chimney with this powder stuff, or do I need to do owt else? José gave it to me, I don't know as the Brazilian stuff works in British fireplaces," he was still yelling fit to burst his lungs. Dumbledore recovered himself.

"Just take a handful and step through, Mr Snape," he instructed calmly, wondering how on earth they had managed to bury Severus without thinking to contact his muggle relatives. Racking his brains, he couldn't remember ever hearing him speak about his father. He supposed everyone had assumed the man to be dead.

There was an almighty 'whoof' and a cloud of soot, ash and sparks exploded into the study. After a few seconds, it cleared to reveal a coughing figure. Out of courtesy, Dumbledore cast a cleansing charm and his visitor turned out to be a spry-looking man in his sixties, with improbably red-brown hair, an all over orange-brown tan, dressed in a yellow T-shirt and Bermuda shorts with big red flowers on them. Despite having spent a century and a half cultivating his own garish eccentricities, Dumbledore was taken aback by the sight. The only resemblance to his austere son was that remarkable hooked nose.

"Mr Snape," he stretched out a hand in greeting. "I'm pleased to meet you."

"Likewise, likewise," he shook it cheerfully. "So this is the magic school!"

"I…" began Albus. Tobias interrupted him.

"Well, it were very odd, because the only one of you folks I know nowadays is José who drinks in the same bar as me ever since he got kicked out of O Ministry da Mágica for fraud or something, and his cousin lives in Skegness and sent him an article from you people's newspaper about summat or other, and on the back of the article were Our Sev's death notice," Albus cringed as Mr Snape paused in his narrative to scratch his chin. "Now I'm a man of the world, Dumbledore, and I never believe what I read in the papers, so I thought I'd come here and find out what really happened for meself. Can't spend too long in this country though, you know how it is."

Swallowing down his horror that anyone should learn of their child's death in such an offhand way, Albus offered him a seat.

"My deepest condolences, Mr Snape," he began. "I'm afraid Severus was involved in a fatal accident over the Christmas holidays. We had no idea that he had any living relatives, or we would have contacted you immediately. I'm very sorry."

"And he was teaching here?" The muggle sounded rather bemused. "Only he were such a sharp little lad, always tinkering with something or other and I thought he was destined for real greatness. Fame, fortune, all of that. Teaching seems like a waste of a good brain, to me."

Dumbledore's natural ferocity on hearing the recurring small-minded belief that teaching was somehow an inferior profession warred with unease at hearing that father and son had obviously not been in touch since before Severus started working at Hogwarts. He made sure he wasn't subliminally condemning Tobias for this, as Severus' legendary temper may well have played a part in the estrangement. The first rule for dealing with any family troubles, magic-related or not, was 'tread carefully'. He did so now.

"Severus was an excellent teacher," Albus stretched the truth. Though perhaps the least approachable member of staff since that Wallachian exchange Professor, Tepeş, in the fifteenth century, Severus had successfully used a mixture of intimidation, bribery and yelling to frighten the highest grades out of his students. They may have been scarred for life by their schooldays, but most witches and wizards between the ages of sixteen and thirty-two had at least an 'E' at OWL level potions.

"Fond of children, was he?" asked Mr Snape. Albus squirmed.

"He taught here for almost twenty years," he replied, evasively.

"Any kids of his own?" The question was asked mildly enough, but immediately put Dumbledore on his guard. He wondered what on earth this man was doing here.

"No," he said.

"Did he ever marry?" Again, an almost conversational tone.

"No," the headmaster had never known much about his potions master's private life. Obviously, he was not the only one.

"Very sensible. Sprogs and women cause nowt but trouble, always after your money and your time – but you don't think of that when you're off sowing your Wild Oats, eh?" he concluded with a leer. Dumbledore, who hadn't sown anything for nearly a century, smiled politely.

"I wasn't aware that Severus had any brothers or sisters," more people who ought to have been informed of his death, Albus realised with dread. Snape senior counted on his fingers for a second.

"There's five of 'em, I think," he frowned. "Or six. Not including that brat of Pat's which she swore is mine, but I know for a fact I was in Swindon nine months before he was born, so they never got a penny out of me. Sev's the eldest; Sharon's the youngest, she's about…twelve? No, must be sixteen by now, by 'eck, don't time fly? Sev never met the others, I don't think. Got very uppity with me after the divorce, like he couldn't understand that Man is supposed to be a Free Spirit."

A picture of this person was forming in Albus' mind, and it was not hanging in a flattering light. He realised that the bereaved father had yet to show any regret at his son's death. As the headmaster himself had been very upset at losing his dear colleague, comrade-in-arms and former pupil, he was finding the light tone of the conversation rather offensive.

"So, anyroad, I reckon I must be his nearest living relative, then?" Snape ploughed on, oblivious. "If it were an accident, and he were only young, he probably never got round to making a will."

_You complete and utter scumbag_, thought Albus, accidentally cracking the china inkpot sitting on his desk with a stab of uncontrolled angry magic. Aloud, he said:

"We haven't got round to going through his papers yet," only a handful of his closest friends would have spotted the thorns hidden beneath his rosy expression.

"Well, perhaps I could help you start?" Tobias was smiling broadly, his avaricious little eyes glinting.

One of the windowpanes exploded.

"What was that?" The muggle leapt to his feet.

"Probably just the wind," said Albus smoothly, without turning to look.

…….

Harry, Ron and Hermione were discussing Quidditch strategies in the Room of Requirement.

Or rather, Harry and Ron were, and Hermione was leafing through a book called "Everything you Ever Needed to Know About Poltergeists, But Were Too Irritated to Ask," and periodically shaking her head.

"Personally, I don't think we've got a lot to worry about. The Slytherins are all so busy grieving they'll be a pushover," said Ron, cheerfully.

"Ron!" Hermione admonished.

"Yeah," said Harry, nodding as though he agreed with her. "They might decide to play their hearts out in his memory, or something."

"Harry!" She yelled.

"What?" they chorused.

"Don't be so callous, how many times do I have to remind you it's only a game…" she tailed off, looking confused. "What's that noise?"

"Quidditch isn't just a game!" Ron grew pink in exasperation.

"What noise?" asked Harry.

"It sounds like running water," she looked all over the room, first at the ceiling, then at the window, then finally at the door. "Look!"

Water was pouring underneath the door, forming a shallow pool on the floorboards which was growing and spreading before their eyes. Pulling out their wands, they approached the door.

"What can it be?" asked Ron, looking worried.

"Only one way to find out!" sighed Harry. "Alohamora!"

The door swung inwards, letting a small wave about a foot high slosh towards them. Wading through it with a few complaints about freezing ankles and wet socks, they emerged into the corridor which was also flooded. Hermione's gaze swept up and down, then her face cleared and she splashed off. Shrugging, the boys followed her.

"Where are we going?" asked Harry, panting to keep up.

"Does this flood ring any bells with you?" she turned a corner and entered another inundated passageway.

"The Chamber of Secrets?" gasped Ron.

"Oh no, not another Basilisk," groaned Harry.

As before, the water was coming from the girls' bathroom. Every sink – including _that_ one – was gushing, as was every toilet bowl. The soft soap dispensers were drizzling gloopy pink waterfalls into the rapids, creating a pleasant-smelling foam in all the corners of the room.

"Myrtle!" called Harry, wading up and down as he tried to find her. Ron kept looking warily over his shoulder, as though the monster, Tom Riddle's horcrux or even Gilderoy Lockhart might materialise at any minute.

"Could it be Peeves, if he's in a funny mood?" wondered Hermione.

"I've never known him mess around with the toilets before," frowned Harry. "It has to be her, you know what she's like, always upset about something trivial. Myrtle!"

"Yeah, typical," tutted Ron.

"What?" snarled Hermione. "Typical what?"

"Er," said Ron, then screeched as a narrow grey plastic box banged into the back of his knee as it floated past. "What in Merlin's name is that?"

Harry shook his head, bewildered.

"Oh, for goodness' sake!" exclaimed Hermione. "After all the time you two have spent in girls' bathrooms! It's only a sanitary bin."

Two cries of horror rent the air.

…….

The house elves managed to get the flood under control after half an hour or so, but of Myrtle, there was no sign. Hermione insisted that something odd was afoot in the castle and retired to the library to do some more research.

Ron tucked the latest Chudley Canons newsletter under his arm and retired to the prefects' bathroom, which, thankfully, was perfectly dry and apparently devoid of any supernatural activity. He locked the cubicle door and unzipped his trousers, ready to settle down for a quiet ten minutes of privacy, when out of nowhere, a whiny little voice whispered:

"Is it safe?"

Swearing as he yanked up his jeans, Ron turned around to see Myrtle's face peeping out of the toilet he had almost sat on.

"What are you doing here!" he yelled. "Go away! I was about to…! Oh, honestly, is there never a moment's peace around here?"

"Ooh, you're horrid! Everyone is so horrid to me!" she sobbed miserably. "They don't want me around, always shouting or bullying, even in my own toilet! 'S'not fair, I'd been in that toilet since before he was born and…"

"Myrtle," Ron might have managed to hold his temper, had he not just noticed that the Canons Magazine had fallen down the pan and been ruined during the excitement. "Get out! Take your whingeing and your moaning and clear off! Go on! Scram!"

"Oh!" she squealed. "You're a horrid, horrid boy!" And wailing, shrieking and muttering imprecations against Ron, boys and the Living in general, she vanished.

…….

AN: Another short one! How do you like Toby? I couldn't resist trying out another way in which a father can be bad without being (fanfic cliché) violent…

So the most unapproachable teacher at Hogwarts ever? Anyone? Heh heh.

Thanks for reading, love SN x


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